


Meet Me At The Crossroads

by Reallife



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fair Folk, M/M, Mutual Pining, human crap-sack Clint Barton, magical au, ninja x-men character cameos, self defeating clint barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 10:28:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12982113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reallife/pseuds/Reallife
Summary: Magic has rules. Old things that should have died a long time ago but keep on ticking regardless of logic or exhaustion have rules. There is a rhythm to these things, and a price to pay for everything, even affection.No one seems to understand thepriceuntil it's too late. Clint tried to tell Bucky that. He tries to tell everyone, but no one ever seems to listen. Not Nat, not Kate, and definitely not Bucky.





	Meet Me At The Crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> For the WinterHawk Reverse Big Bang 2017. Art to be posted in the future. A few people from the WinterHawk Discord helped me beta this but I never got your Ao3 usernames or tumblrs, if you read this please ping me so I can credit you here!

Post winter soldier but handwaving AoU forward, Fraction!Hawkeye, so expect Kate and Lucky to pop up with unknown significance. 

 

\---

In his lifetime--along with the life he had lived that wasn’t really his--he had fought a lot of monsters. There was the Red Skull, the Hulk, The _Red_ Hulk, a Lizardman, aliens, more aliens, cannibals that melded their DNA with animals, and worst of all _actual Nazis_.

This was definitely fairly up there though.

Before him stood a _thing_ that made the very earth under him seem to rot, like a plague was seeping from his feet and gradually spreading outwards. It’s skin appeared cracked and molten, like cooling magma, and every few seconds a random part of his ‘skin’ seemed to _bubble_ up and _pop_. The shoulders themselves were at least as wide as The Hulk’s, and had jagged armor that extended at least half a foot from his skin and though it appeared to grow from the skin it also appeared more solid and substantial.

From its chest, bones protruded, crossing weaving together to form a protective armour, and it almost looked as if it had covered the lower half in armour made by Hephaestus himself. 

Its fingers ended in claws that dripped something that sizzled and smoked, they were thick and black, but ended in sharp points and were serrated on one side. Just looking at them made Bucky shudder, and he felt a phantom pain in his skull as if they were already digging into his scalp.

Instead of a normal mouth its massive jaws protruded to more resemble the jaws of a pit bull, but with sharp, shark like teeth, and the eyes above it that were tinged gold and blood red didn’t seem to require blinking. It didn’t breath, its sense of sight may not even resemble their own, and their normal methods of attack were quickly becoming useless before they were even attempted.

Ram’s horns appeared to come from it’s skull, curling tightly together and _smoking_ as if they had been stuck in a forge minutes before, and below those where he expected to see ears there was--nothing. 

The air smelled like rotting meat and sulfur. A terrible combination that made him want to gag, but that was probably part of the point.

“Well Buck, any last words?” Clint asked as he squeezed his hand one more time before letting him go and pulling out two Stark modified shock batons.

Bucky sighed, willing his heart rate down and glancing over at Clint, “This is Steve’s fault.”

\----  
(This is how it is Steve’s fault)

 

“An estranged heiress, a former assassin, and Captain America walk into an art gallery,” Kate said, through a plastered on fake smile as she looks over the crowd in the Manhattan high rise as they stepped out of the elevator.

Bucky adjusted his suit minutely _again_ , looking uncomfortable and tense, “Is the punchline that they get kicked out?”

The inevitable lecture from Steve about having a good attitude and getting out of the damn apartment for something other than missions was interrupted by their hostesses emerging from a side hallway. An eccentric pair, Monet St. Croix and her wife Jubilation Lee were former superheroes themselves, enjoying an intermittent retirement. Monet preferred high class brands, silks and perfect makeup while her wife wore bright colors that could be from thrift stores or Rue 21.

They both cared about mutant rights though, and had opened up one of Monet’s apartments as a private gallery to showcase mutant artists and generate money for a local youth shelter. It was a cause that Bucky could get behind, especially when Kate bought their expensive tickets, but mingling with high society wasn’t his idea of a good time.

“Kate!” Jubilee shoved her champagne flute into her obviously annoyed wife’s hand and rushed forward to hug Kate, uncaring about her dangling fancy earrings and expensive dress.

The classier Hawkeye hugged her back and hooked Jubilee’s arm into her’s and shot a smile at Monet that told Bucky there was a story behind it. “Jubes! Are you going to give us a tour of your shindig?” 

Jubilee nodded, clearly pleased with this turn of events. She looked to Steve and gave him a proper salute with a saucy grin, and a “Yo, Cap!” before her eyes went to Bucky, unabashed curiosity there that made him want to adjust his bowtie again, “Hey Barnes! Thanks for taggin’ along, let’s move out!” 

Monet sighed and moved to Steve’s side, picking out the most polite and least potentially embarrassing of the bunch. She passed her wife’s glass back to her with a practiced motion, fingertips gliding across Jubilee’s wrist in a way that made her blush, though neither woman took their eyes of the guests.

With each of them giving their own version of the tour--Monet’s knowledge of the mediums used, history behind each piece and other proper artsy things that Steve paid rapt attention to, and Jubilee’s enthusiastic descriptions of the people who created each display Bucky was tempted to break off to find a corner to just _breathe_ in. Instead he tried to follow them and half listen while keeping an eye on things, and not stay so close he was expected to be part of the conversation.

(It’s an art form in and of itself really.)

In all honesty he still wasn’t entirely sure how he ended up here. Kate knew Monet and missed opportunities to get dressed up, Steve loved art and good causes, but Bucky was a sucker.  
Well. Steve and Kate had cornered him, said something about how he needed to get out more. That he was never going to acclimate to 2017 and having a real life if he didn’t do things with it, get out and experience _good_ things. Apparently going on Avengers or SHIELD under the table missions didn’t count as a ‘hobby’, taking Lucky on walks with Clint didn’t count as ‘getting out’, and marathoning _Days of our Lives_ and _Passions_ with the grandma down stairs didn’t count as making friends.

Go figure.

They meant well.

He had tried to force Clint to come as well, but Kate and Steve said that being anti-social with the same person he was usually anti-social with didn’t count. Clint was all too pleased to stay home anyway. Bastard.

As they roamed around the gallery they came to another room, there was no proper door but there was a thick black curtain covering the doorway. Jubilee let go of Kate to hold the curtain open, dropping a quick kiss on the cheek of her wife who pretended she didn’t like it. Bucky was the last to go in, the room was darker than the rest of the gallery and he hesitated. Old habits and all.

Jubilee smirked at him. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.” For a brief moment he thought he saw her eyes flash red, she watched him intently until Steve popped his head back into the hall--

“C’mon Buck, you’re holdin’ up the line.” When his eyes went back to the hostess she looked normal, and blinked at him with an innocent smile until he darted into the room. He would much rather be watching _Dog Cops_ right now than dealing with this shit, and he was pretty sure he heard laughter and someone getting smacked behind him.

The room was definitely darker here, but it placed more emphasis on what was displayed. There was a wall covered with a row of old photographs blown up to various sizes, some in black and white with others in the muted colors of the early 1900’s. They were all of carnivals, vaudeville shows and the the wild array of people who were a part of them. There were a variety of frames, some seemed to glitter in the spotlight of the lights shining down on them, drawing the eye and highlighting the unusual and sometimes bizarre scenes they featured. There were even some frames made out of misshapen metal, and others still favored simple stretched canvas.

“These are from a friend of our’s whose family have been photographers since the 1870’s. This is the first time he has printed any of them. Very one of a kind.” Many of the shots were not glamorized, showing the ugly side of the performers, raw and honest. Oddly enough, his eyes were most drawn to the ones that _were_ set up and framed to elevate the subject--the snake charmer turned into a veritable goddess, the archer on top of the elephant was Artemis stepped onto the mortal plane.

He glanced over at the group, Steve was entranced by the photographs, and Bucky just knew he was going to be carrying some of these home. In all honesty he was fine with that. Steve deserved more things he could feel happy about without accompanying guilt and strings. That was the real reason he gave in and came here, because it meant a lot to Steve to do something like this with him again.

(Oh, and Kate. Even with her being the brat she was.)

Speaking of which, she had that shit eating grin of her’s which meant, “Hey Barnes, Monet says some of these are scandalous so watch your virgin eyes.”

He gave her the bird (Bucky Barnes, bastion of maturity) before turning back to wander down the wall again. Past a picture looking up at the big top with it’s looming grandeur, past the man juggling torches before he stopped dead.

He would know those biceps anywhere. _What the fuck_.  
[INSERT PICTURE HERE]  
“Steve! C’mere.” His friend snapped to at the tone and sharpness in his voice, abandoning his perusing with an urgency that Bucky would appreciate more later when his mind wasn’t spiraling at the picture in front of him.

With him came Kate, whose frustrated expression contradicted Steve’s flabbergasted expression which told him more than she could have wanted it too.

His hands wretched at his bowtie as his mind went from _confusion_ to _anger_ , and he pivoted sharply to toss it towards Kate and storm out the door fully prepared to keep his anger at _more_ secrets all the way to Bedstuy.

But he paused at the doorway and looked back at them, “You’re not going to tell me to go easy on him?”

Kate shook her head and mimed wiping her hands on her dress, “Nope, not my circus.”

 

\---  
It probably said something about Clint that his dog never obeyed him without the promise of food, while for Bucky he jumped off the bed with a stern look and a snap of his fingers. 

Admittedly, he had not been able to maintain his anger all the way back to Bedstuy. It was a little much, even for the former Winter Soldier. It was especially hard to be mad when he was staring at Clint’s sleeping (drooling) face, tangled up in comforters with his head half buried under his pillow. It was hard to stay mad at Clint in general, he would give one of those sheepish smiles, scratch the back of his neck and crack a self-effacing joke that actually revealed more than he meant it to.

He considered, briefly, crawling into bed with him. It was something that Clint and him had been joking about, like a game of chicken where the taunts were beginning to turn from normal banter between team mates--

_”Bite me, Barnes.”_

_“Only if you behave yourself Barton_ ” 

\-- to something that sounded more like flirting, a thing that people who had the misfortune to be near them when this happened didn’t hesitate to point out. 

_”Stop eyefucking Hawkeye while he’s getting stitched up, that’s weird man.”_

_“What? He’s too tired for anything more exciting._ ”

They _weren’t_ sleeping together, or dating, and Barton had the right to as many secrets as he wanted. Having some secrets didn’t mean that he didn’t trust Bucky. They had keys to each other’s apartments, Clint watched marathons of stupid shows (including, but not limited to _Dog Cops_ ) all night with him but that didn’t mean they had obligations of ‘openness’ to each other. Or something.

It wasn’t like Clint knew just about everything about Bucky, not all of it completely voluntary, from SHIELD’s data on him and the discovered HYDRA files to the times he had actually managed to get drunk on Asgardian booze. Even his kinks he had been afraid would be abnormal and off putting, which just made Clint stare at him with a look akin to hunger, an exchange they still hadn’t come back to. 

Stupid shit. Big shit. 

(Dark shit, that made him wake up from in the middle of the night screaming, sometimes on Clint’s couch. The only time he was grateful he couldn’t hear anything outside of his quiet room in his sleep.)

So there was anger at Clint having something like this from him. Even though it was irrational, it didn’t stop the churning feeling under his skin. But below that there was something more that he didn’t want to think about.

Of course, who knew what ‘like this’ was. Was Clint a shapeshifter? Was this just a face he was using, from an ancestor or a random newspaper clipping?

Maybe Clint wasn’t even human. That would explain how he could eat so much weird shit and be okay at least.

Only one way to find out.

Bucky finally lifted up his foot to nudge Clint’s mattress. “Barton. Up and at ‘em.’” Clint opened up one bloodshot eye, seemed to recognize him, and closed it without comment.

 _Goddamnit,_ he kicked the bed frame this time, a rickety thing that alerted him everytime Barton so much as rolled around whenever he crashed downstairs. Clint’s hand lifted off the blanket before dropping back down heavily. “Are you a demon or something?” Admittedly, It was mostly a joke to get Clint confused enough to wake up and question.

“Yeah, now go away.” Clint pulled his quilt up and over his head to form a multi colored, patchy, breathing lump.

Bucky stood there, stunned and torn between trying to process his friend’s answer and disbelief. Rationally, he knew that this was one of the weird things Clint did when he was exhausted, like brewing a pitcher of coffee with sugar once or cuddling up to Bucky on the couch like he was a teddy bear.

He was about to kick the bed again with the assumption that Clint hadn’t even woken up the first time at all, his unconscious brain decided that Bucky wasn’t a threat or on a work visit and didn’t bother to wake the rest of him up. Before he could so much as raise his foot Clint sat up like he was shot with such urgency and fright in his face that Bucky stepped back, reaching for the knife he definitely didn’t bring to the party out of instinct.

“What? Who told you?” In a rare show of person-dog solidarity Lucky reappeared behind Bucky, whining before he jumped back up on the bed to nuzzle into Clint’s side.

Bucky blinked at him, taking a defensive tone to meet Clint’s demanding one. “I was joking! Are you being fucking serious?”

Clint paled, eyes going from narrowed to wide, mouth dropping open in shock, it was an expression his teammates were familiar with. It was his signature, go to look of realization, of _oh shit, I fucked up_ , “Well uh, in that case, I was just saying that because I was sleeping, and why would you even ask that?”

He settled back onto the bed, trying to recline casually and pet Lucky like this was all perfectly normal. It might have passed muster with one of the other Avengers (except Nat), but not Bucky. Clint was, unsurprisingly, good at his job, and that was first and foremost a spy. One of his best qualifications was adaptation, and when he wanted to slip into another role--in this case the dumb, lazy and lethargic normal guy--he could.

Except Bucky wasn’t an idiot, and he knew Clint so he just scoffed, definitely not buying what Clint was selling, “I saw a picture of you from 1910”

No frilly speeches, psychology or going easy on him. Just the fact that was hard to argue with and the clear unspoken stance that he wouldn’t waver on this or walk away easily.

The debate about whether to come clean played out across Clint’s face as he lounged against his slightly lopsided headboard, fingers dug into Lucky’s fur. It took less than a minute, the internal back and forth waging visibly across his face until he sighed, rubbing at his scalp again in a familiar stressed gesture.

“I’m not human, anymore.” There’s a weariness in his eyes for a moment, something old and heavy that he’s been carrying around there. It’s carved into the lines around his eyes and broadcasted in the twitch of his fingers against Lucky’s fur. “The closest word is I guess Crossroads demon? But I’m more Rumplestiltskin than Crowley.”

Clint looked resigned and uncomfortable, but in his defense that’s the same way Bucky looked whenever he was busted with a lie and the only thing left was the truth.

He had so many questions, and he wasn’t sure where to start. If it wasn’t Clint, someone he was all wrapped up in he would be doing a threat assessment, working out a strategy. But this was the problem with having emotional ties--rational and logical thinking sort of fizzled out.

Still in bed, Clint cracked his knuckles before holding up a hand as if he were shushing him, “Before you start, there are rules about what I can say and how this goes.”

Bucky’s mouth shut, and he stared at Clint with an assessing look on his face and Clint waited for his nod before he continued, “You can ask three questions, no wishing for more wishes, no altering them after. What’s said is said. I cannot divulge agreements between myself and others.”

 _That_ was rote memory, it had the air of something said again and again like an oath. It occurred to him that he might could wiggle around the rules, slyly find a way to ask all the questions he wanted.

Find out who else had reaped any benefits from this.

(If there were benefits, because seriously, _what the fuck_ )

He thought about what he knew about Rumplestiltskin and other such tales. About not giving them wiggle room in getting what you want. About specificity. This was Clint, the Clint he trusted and-- _cared_ for, but he was clearly by rules not of his own making as well. He fought the urge to pace, but couldn’t resist running his hands through his hair in agitation--too long by far but something that grounded him in his new self too much for him to give up.

Clint seemed to relax now that the initial scare was over, the shock of Bucky finding out his secret and settling into something he was probably familiar with. People panicking over what to do with that information and how best to use it to their advantage.

Another deep breath, and he finally decided on the first question--”What are your limitations?”

There’s a smile on Clint’s face of pleased approval that should not cause a bubble of warmth to rise in Bucky’s chest, “I cannot bring anyone back to life who has been dead more than from one sunset to the next sunrise, or vice versa.” He ticked off a count with his fingers, “I can make someone obsessed with you and I myself cannot unmake life for you.”

He chewed on that for a moment, noticing that the phrase _obsession_ was listed as a limitation, and the many options left even with the specificity of the last addendum. Clint’s head was tilted to the side, eyes lit up with interest as he watched Bucky digest this information, reformatting his strategy that was being built on the go.

Ideally he would ask, _how_ , _when_ or _how much of what has been said between us, lying on the roof from shared insomnia is you?_. Perhaps most importantly he wanted to ask, _is there a division at all_.

Instead of what would satisfy his emotional need to find out about his friend and how it affected whatever they had or didn’t have, he tried to ask what would be most _useful_. Which brought him to, “What is the cost?”

Clint’s fingers twitched in Lucky’s fur, the muscles around his mouth tightened minutely, and there was a hitch in his breath. So small and seemingly unimportant that no one else would have noticed, but he knew Clint when there was a story with baggage weighing him down. “The cost is always equal to what is desired.”

What Clint didn’t say was, _who_ decided what could be classified as equal, but that would count as his third question. So instead he nodded, filing that away and said, “How did you become this?”

Bucky knew what the answer was before he answered, because he knows the smile on Clint’s face that comes with passing off a screaming nightmare as being chased by marshmellows. The self deprecating humor that he wore like a second skin, possible for hundreds of years apparently. 

“Lucky me, I was equal.”

\---

An hour ago there was cold and calculating fury. It filled the upper floors of Stark tower like a sickening miasma that seemed to press on their bones and steal the air from their lungs at once. The clever plans have been thrown out on the table and all discarded one by one, the wits and patience of Tony Stark and Bruce Banner have failed, along with the battle strategies of Steve Rogers.

Two hours before that it was a blinding anger, because Helen Cho, Darcy Lewis and Pepper Potts were taken right from underneath their noses. Because the people who had been beaten, humiliated and ‘harmed’ by the Avengers weren’t as dumb as they often seemed. Or at least some of them.

They knew now that Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanova and Tony Stark could not easily be kidnapped, injured or even locked away. They could survive the loss of their wealth and even their reputation.

But the loss that would hurt them the most?

The people they loved.

It shook the whole team and made them grateful that at least Jane and Thor were in Asgard, although they could really use both of them at the moment.

No one could find them, and no one knew how they were taken. They were sleeping in bed when it happened, Tony was down in the lab, Pepper was effectively alone but there was always Jarvis.

Helen and Darcy were literally in the arms of their partners. Light sleepers, highly trained and dangerous, but they did not wake until hours after the fact. All three were taken at the same time, cameras showed they were _there_ and _gone_ in between one second and the next. The only thing left in their place were plain metal disks, with no markings, no radiation readings or anything else to mark them as unusual except how they were found.

They quickly came to the conclusion that there was some sort of unknown artifact involved, possibly alien or magical in origin. They knew that the girls were alive--but this was a mixed blessing. Every half hour since they had first discovered their loss, on the dot, the discs would suddenly emit the sound of at least one of the women screaming in pain. With Pepper’s came muttered threats that she seemed to cling too like a rosary, Darcy had vulgarity that had Clint giving a rueful smile and Helen...Helen _counted_ each time she was hurt, and everyone seemed confused about that except Steve.

There was no signal they could track even when the audio was echoing painfully in Tony’s lab. They were at their wit’s end, and more than a little emotionally compromised, which was probably the idea.

SHIELD was trying to locate the trackers all the girls had embedded in their arms that had inexplicably gone dark. This left the core members of the Avengers in one of Tony’s larger labs that had been converted hastily into an improvised war room as Bruce and Tony studied one of the disks hoping to find _something_.

Because at this point there were no clues, no breadcrumbs to follow. Nothing, but a feeling of powerlessness and anger written across all their faces.

Bucky couldn’t deal with it anymore. It had only been a few hours, but it was a few hours of hurting for his friends who were presumably being _tortured_ , hours of his closest friend thinking he was about to lose another woman he loved and clearly being eaten up with guilt for it.

Clint had been watching him intermittently since they had reconvened back at the tower from their initial fruitless search, as if he were waiting for this moment.

In the three months or so since he had found out about Clint’s secret they had tried to go back to normal. Bucky had been comfortable in the knowledge that he would never try and make a bargain with Clint--because it wouldn’t be his friend he was striking a deal with, and it probably would not be in his favor.

Yet, here they stood. He justified it with the desperate circumstances, that not using all the tools and weapons at their disposal was stupidity in the least and a disservice to their friends at worst.

“Barton, I wanna make a deal.” Natasha’s head snapped up, eyes darting between Bucky and Clint. There wasn’t confusion there, shock yes, but she knew what he was talking about. He wanted to ask her why she had not tried this first if she knew what Clint was, but that wasn’t a question for this moment.

Steve watched them as if trying to figure out a puzzle, Stark and Banner were still too focused on their scan to notice anything going on, but Steve knew something with weight was happening.

Clint? Clint just looked resigned, he reeked of resignation, of _I knew it would come to this_ as he unfolded himself from the chair had had fallen into earlier. He rolled his neck across his shoulders along with his wrists like he was getting ready to fight, and Natasha sighed, “If we are going to do this, let’s be smart about it.”

She stepped away from the wall she had been leaning against so she could stand behind Stark and Banner. Always jumpy, even when caught up in tunnel vision, Banner noticed her, leaning back and to the side to get his comfort zone back and so he could tap Tony’s chair with his foot. Gently the first time, not so much the second, “What?! I’m working on a solution! What are you guys doing, other than distracting me?”

Tony lashed out the way only someone who heard their heart screaming just half an hour prior, and it was clear Natasha was trying to be patient with him, but even she was feeling raw and exposed.

“Tony, we have a solution, but we need you to not ask too many questions, trust us, and help.” Natasha had her hands on his shoulders and situated herself in front of him as much as she could. It forced him to focus on her when she blocked his computer, and her attempt to ground him seemed to be working, “We want them back as much as you do.”

It was probably the sincerity in her voice, the undernote of pleading for him to help because she needed Darcy back as much as Stark wanted Pepper. It wasn’t a thing that she wanted--or even _could_ \--say out loud, but the pain of feeling helpless while the person she loved was in danger showed on her face and in her voice. So Tony nodded, and stayed blessedly silent. At the other end of the room Steve mirrored him, but was looking awful twitchy about being left out.

Clint watched her as she moved towards him, taking cues from her as if this was an op, and it sort of was at this point. 

He trusted her with everything, and right now everything meant three of his close friends. 

She gave him an assessing look as she stood in front of him before turning to the others, “Clint isn’t human. He has magic that is only accessible in certain circumstances that he can’t control, we can make a bargain with him, but it has to be an equal exchange.”

Clint dropped his head in his hands when the chaos erupted, Steve, Bruce and Tony all bursting with questions at Nat. A mix of disbelief, confusion and anger at wondering why he didn’t do something sooner. It was hard to blame them for missing the part where he _couldn’t_ , and even knowing that fact so well even he still felt guilty about it. For not suggesting this earlier.

But he hated making deals with people he cared about. It always seemed liked it was going to work out great, and in the short term it did. Not enough people thought beyond that though, the long game--and he wasn’t allowed to guide their hands or say _no_ when he wanted to.

There were rules he couldn’t break for them, restrictions and binds, worse yet was the nature of what he was now that drove him to want things he had no right to desire.

Clint rocked sideways when someone bumped into him, and he peeked through his fingers to see Bucky standing there, not looking at him.

Speaking of things he shouldn’t let himself want.

Last Sunday morning Bucky had been at Clint’s first thing in the morning to shove an orange in his hands--

_”Can an immortal get scurvy?” Clint just blinked at him fuzzily, trying to figure out why he was holding fruit instead of his favorite chipped coffee mug. The question itself didn’t even process._

_Bucky peeled the orange for him, and he stood so close that Clint felt bits of orange juice hit his skin as he tore at the peel. He was so warm, and Clint wanted to curl up against him and sleep for days. “I don’t know,” His voice was scratchy from disuse, and he had to pause to clear his throat before repeating the phrase._

_Bucky turned and dropped the peel in the trash can before leaning over Clint, reaching out for one of his hands with his calloused ones so he could place the orange in his palm, “Don’t know what, Barton?”_

_There was only a few inches between them, but with Bucky’s presence and the way he carried himself it always seemed like more. Like now, when he would have to tilt his head up to look at Bucky’s face because he was so damn close, but the invasion of space didn’t feel so much like an invasion as a--homecoming._

_God that was so stupid. Clint didn’t get cheesy shit like that. He got guilt, and nightmares, mornings that started with screaming and ghosts of long dead people in his neighbor’s faces. Clint Barton the human didn’t deserve someone who waited up for him, worried about his safety and ready to wrap him up in comforters. That was then. No matter what Barnes had done as The Soldier, he was due someone was better than what Clint had become._

_That was what you do when you cared about someone. You sacrifice for them, and Clint was going to give up whatever was fizzling between them for Barnes. So he could be happy. Maybe it was the last bit of humanity he had left, and he was going to use is so Barnes could feel whole again._

_With someone else_

_“Nothing.” His throat hurt, and it was hard to breathe, like someone was pressing in on his chest._

_A cold metal hand tilted his chin up. “Hmm.” The goosebumps that spread down his arms was from the cold touch, nothing else, “You think too much Barton, but we’re getting there.”_

“--Can he just go and get them? Why hasn’t he done it already?” Stark’s voice, unsurprisingly, was the first thing Clint heard as he came back to himself. If anyone was going to have trouble grasping consequences here, it was going to be Tony.

Natasha sighed, but it was Steve’s calm voice interrupted her, “Directly saving three lives would cost three, wouldn’t it?”

She nodded, and they could all see a plan forming in his eyes. He had his Captain America face on, meaning there was a strategy forming there which gave Clint an odd sort of comfort. He was used to handing the reigns over to Steve, even Bucky seemed to relax a fraction at his side.

Barnes had never explained _where_ it was they were going exactly, but he kept coming back around so that was the part Clint focused on.

“Even if we did get them back, without whatever it is that was used to take them, this could just happen again.” Five minutes until the next time they would hear the girls, with Stark looking twitchier by the minute. His knee was bouncing repeatedly and he kept running his hands through his hair, eyes darting to the disk in his hand like if he willed it then it would make no sound.

Bruce finally spoke up, eyes settled on Bucky and remarkably calm, “Where and how, be as specific as possible on your side of the agreement and his.”

Out of the corners of his eyes Clint saw Bucky nod and he sighed, and a flick of his wrist brought the only magic he could perform at will to play with a small coin in his palm. Slightly bigger in diameter and weight than a silver dollar, it was uneven around the edges, only the shadow of an engraving and writing left on either side, and from it there seemed to come a very quiet _hum._

He rolled it between his fingers, popping it from one hand to the other before turning to Bucky, but was interrupted by Steve, “Wait, why does it have to be Bucky? He hasn’t even lost someone, why is he taking the risk?”

“That’s exactly why, Steve.” Bucky’s tone brokered no argument, but it didn’t appear to be working so far, “Because this is my idea, my choice, and I know more about what I’m getting into than you do. Now stand down.” 

Steve’s mouth opened up to protest again but he was stopped by Natasha stepping in front of him. “We don’t have time for a martyr complex measuring contest.”

Captain America himself looked cowed, backing down with a nod, embarrassment coloring his cheeks, restless energy leaving his fingers twitching even as he tried to remain calm.

“James Buchanan Barnes, what do you want from me?” There was that voice again, the one that said there was weight behind what he was saying even if they couldn’t understand it. The coin rolled between his knuckles at the same pace as his speech.

Bucky stood a little straighter, shoulders back and a calculating look on his face like he was lining up a shot. “I want to know where Helen Cho, Darcy Lewis and Pepper Potts are currently physically located, and what was used to remove them from the building without anyone detecting it.” The look of focus stayed on his face as he seemed to be replaying what he said, Clint was going easy on him and letting him have a moment even though it wasn’t exactly tradition to do so.

The coin rolled from one hand to the next as Clint spoke. “And what do you offer?”

Defiance flashed in Bucky’s eyes with a his head held high and jaw clenched. “What do you want?”

Clint’s head tilted to the side consideringly, and for a moment the coin seemed to move so fast it was a blur, in one hand and then the other with hardly any movement to attribute it to before he spoke; “A favor from the former Winter Soldier. One you will drop everything for on my call and ask no questions.”

“Accepted.” Natasha’s angry muttering in Russian coincided with Darcy’s screams echoing into the room, making everyone but Clint and Bucky jump.

There was a noise that might have been a desk being knocked over, and Steve grabbing onto her and speaking softly to try and calm her even as her girlfriend’s sounds of pain continued around them. Clint extended his hand to Bucky with the coin in his palm as if for a normal handshake, but when Bucky grasped it he made a noise of surprise and pain.

“What the fuck?” Clint held the coin in front of his face where it glowed red for a too-long minute, Bucky’s blood balanced unnaturally on the edge before it suddenly absorbed into the metal.

When Clint looked back at Bucky it was with a resigned expression, and for a beat it looked like his years and the baggage he had been dragging throughout them had caught up to him.

But it was gone as quickly as it had come, “It is done, let’s head to the jet, I’ll fill you in on the way.” There was a mad scramble to follow him as he strode out of the room, and he tried not to hear Natasha say something to Bucky in Russian about giving the devil too much reign.

\----  
The rescue was...anticlimactic. Bruce was right, _where_ and _how_ were the most important, and the _who_ became obvious once they got there. The girls are brought back and rushed to medical, along with Clint who had decided once again to not tell anyone that he was falling from a building, goddamnit.

It was a rough six hours before everyone was stable, bandaged, a little drugged up but otherwise conscious. All in all, it could have been a lot worse. 

The girls thanked him after they were told his part in their rescue along with Bucky, although they looked at him bit oddly--and really that was to be expected considering. They looked fit to burst with questions, especially Helen, but someone (probably Nat) had told them to wait.

Tony, of course, was a whole ‘nothing can of worms.

“Barton, I just got one question,” Clint’s mouth dropped open to give the normal recitation but Tony cut him off with a dismissive gesture, “Yeah yeah rules I got it, but how are you so old but still don’t know how to be a functioning human being?”

Behind them Pepper sighed, an apology written on her face, but enough of her own curiosity that she didn’t try and stop Tony.

Clint gave a half shrug, on account of one of his shoulders being jacked to all hell. “Never got around to it I guess.” 

Tony laughed and clapped him on his good shoulder, shuffled off towards Pepper again while tossing over his shoulder, “I got your number now Barton.”

_Oh goodie._

\-------

 

Steve texts him and says Bucky bought that old picture of him, has it hanging up in his room. Clint isn’t sure why Steve is texting him instead of knocking on his door, seeing as Bucky lives a floor below him, so Steve is likely still physically nearby. He could’ve just stopped by, that was normally his thing, preferring face to face conversations still.

But in the three days since they got the girls back, Steve hadn’t stopped by once, or texted him much.

He remembered then, that Steve was raised Catholic and he still held onto it.

Which. That was fine.

Really.

It was fine.

It wasn’t the first time he had lost a friend after they found out what he was.

It’s just.

Steve was essentially immortal, he healed fast and showed no indication of aging and Clint was kind of looking forward to more friends who weren’t doing to die in twenty years. Steve had been a _good_ friend who didn’t judge him for being poor when he was young (that part was true, just a lot longer ago than he had implied), or a thief to survive, and never treated him like he was the weak link. He had even picked up some ASL.

But. He was fine.

You know, maybe he would come around even.

Maybe.

\---

The fourth day Bucky showed up, with a TV in hand that you don’t have to hit every half an hour and five pizzas from the nearest pizza joint.

“What,” he said, dumbfounded, because Bucky didn’t bother to explain, just sort of strode into the apartment like he had a habit of doing without waiting for Clint to hobble his way to the door on his one good leg. Bucky was a similar vein of fucked up to Clint, he didn’t think he belonged anywhere, didn’t deserve it, was going to fuck it up, six of one half a dozen of the other.

The difference was Bucky had an inherent ease about him that meant he could look like he was at home anywhere, that Clint would never have.

“Cho says you aren’t supposed to be using your broken limbs, fighting or doing anything where you have to breathe heavy and flex your broken ribs.” Bucky rattled off like it was a normal thing to memorize, and Clint just blinked at hm from the couch, twisted around to stare at him in the kitchen as he stacked the pizzas on the table. Lucky perked up from where he had been sleeping at the foot of the couch at the sight of the pizza boxes.

Clint was still trying to process what the connection was between Bucky being here with a new TV and food and Helen’s instructions, because honestly, _what_. Bucky put a couple slices on an actual plate to bring to Clint, with a smack on the back of his head to boot. “Stop twistin’ around.”

His old TV was set to the side and the 42 inch was slowly set up in its place as he ate his pizza. “I’m staying here until at least your leg cast comes off.” He said casually from behind the TV as he connected the wires of Clint’s Xbox (a gift from Kate, who he pretty sure mostly got it for her but to keep at his place) to the TV, muttering all the while.

The plate nearly fell from his hands. “But, that’s _weeks_!” he blurted out, stunned and so caught up in it he didn’t stop Lucky from snatching his slice from his now slack hands.

“Yeah well.” The TV teetered but Bucky grabbed it just in time. “Tony has this thing where we can connect and watch the director’s edition of Lord of the Rings and all the Mad Max movies.” Among many others, Clint was sure, but that didn’t explain Bucky deciding to put up with him for weeks possibly all the time.

The movies are great. Legolas jokes aside, Clint loves LOTR, who doesn’t? 

But it’s torture when Bucky spent the whole trilogy taking care of him, getting him food, water so his pain pills weren’t fucked with, helping him stay comfortable on the couch and even getting him to the bathroom. Bucky let him having the whole couch instead of competing with Lucky to see who can steal the most space from Clint like he usually did, and instead he sat down in front of it with Lucky’s head on his lap.

The downside was that Bucky leaned his head back against Clint’s stomach, at the perfect place for his good hand to comb through. He lasted halfway through the first movie before he gave in and started doing just that. It was entirely distracting, for both of them, Bucky’s eyes closing and the tension draining from his face and shoulders. Well over a hundred years had passed since Clint had been a human teenager, but this quiet sort of affection with Bucky, and the trust he was exhibiting made him feel like one again.

For seven days they watched movies, played cards, played darts, washed Lucky (or Bucky washed Lucky while Clint watched and gave a running critique of his technique, and binge watched Law and Order. Which, as everyone knows, is on all the time, on at least one channel.

At the end of every day, when his injuries and pain meds caught up to him and Clint was exhausted, Bucky would carry Clint upstairs to his room.

Every day Bucky would look a little more tempted to kiss him and a little less like he believed resisting was a good idea.

On the eighth day Clint…

On the eighth day Clint fucked up.

\---

Clint rolled the coin between his knuckles as he waited for Bucky to enter his bedroom. He had been awake for hours thinking about this, talking himself in and out of it half a dozen times. This was a good decision, the only decision at this point.

It didn’t mean it was going to be easy. Or he wasn’t going to get drunk after.

When he walked through the door, coffee in hand from Clint’s favorite coffee cart, Clint could have cried.

But he didn’t.

Bucky froze at the sight of him, set the cups down on the night stand. He might not know what was about to happen, but he seemed to know he wasn’t going to like it and no plans to make it easy on either of them. Bastard.

“I’m ready to call in your debt, James Buchanan Barnes.” It was so stupid, but it was tradition, there were rules and ways this was done and Clint could sense Bucky’s blood just under the surface of the coin

He could see Bucky’s throat constrict and emotion drain from his face. His back was a little straighter and head held higher, ready to take orders, ready to pay the price, no matter what. The sight of him, such a contrast to the open and trusting Bucky he had been seeing the last week made his chest hurt and dread feel his veins.

“What do you want from me Clint?” The voice was soft, his shoulders and fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for Clint but he stopped.

It wasn’t right, what Clint was about to do. Not when Bucky was looking at him with raw eyes somewhere between the _Soldier_ he had grown from and would go back to for the people he loved, and the Bucky only Clint got to see.

“What do you want of me, that I haven’t already given you, that I would give you without having any obligation of debt?” 

There was nothing but raw honesty in his voice, his heart on the line and so much unspoken between them coming out and Clint _couldn’t do this anymore_ couldn’t be so close to having something he wanted while knowing he _couldn’t_.

Because he _loved_ Bucky, goddamnit, so he couldn’t subject him to being with a _monster_. Who could be summoned across the world by someone who knew the right words and asked to do unspeakable things and do things in return, and he couldn’t say no because someone would be pulling his strings for decades maybe.

The coin rolled between his fingers again and Clint spoke, “You promised me a favor. No questions asked and no delays. To clear your debt with me, you must stop falling in love with me.”

Bucky, the bastard that he was, _laughed_ , a sad and resigned sound and closed his eyes for a beat. The coin glowed between them as he tilted his head back with a sigh, and for a moment his face contorted like he was in pain, caught somewhere between hysterical laughter and sobbing.

Finally he cleared his throat and looked back at Clint’s face, ignoring the thing between them. “Day late and dollar short Barton. You got a second request?”

 _Fuck_.

“No, no Bucky you can’t go back on a deal and you can’t love me!” There was unfiltered desperation in Clint’s face and voice, his hand suddenly gripping the coin tight as if he could stop the growing heat from it. His other hand gripped his comforter hard, suddenly filled with anxiety and fear, but it did no good. Bucky just shrugged as if to say _oh well_

_Then the pain started._

Clint’s head slammed back into the wall as his bones and muscles forcefully mended, something that was supposed to take two months at least suddenly happening with brutal efficiency without the smoothness of Steve’s healing.This was being done with purpose, with intent, and that intent was not to be helpful--it was to make a point. 

Selfless Bucky, who got too attached to reckless blondes apparently, reacted without hesitation. He launched himself onto the bed with a knife, trying to defend Clint from something he couldn’t possibly help with, “Barton, what’s going on?” Like they were in the middle of a mission gone sideways instead of _life_ gone sideways. 

“There are _rules_ Bucky.” Rules about when someone like him contrived to rebel against those that they served. Rules about being able bodied, that skirted just this side of fair as so many of the things with the fair folk (and adjacent cousins) seemed to be. 

_The room smelled like sulfur._

The knife in his nightstand was yanked out and he started hacking at his casts. “We gotta go, we gotta go, he’s coming and everyone in the blast radius is gonna get hurt, we gotta go Buck.” 

“Who is coming Barton? What the fuck is going on?” But he helped tear Clint’s casts off and watched him pull on clothes and grab weapons with a manic sort of focus. 

“My boss! C’mon, if we hurry we can choose the battleground, but we gotta go now, grab your weapons I know you have stashed in the couch. Call Nat, see if she can arrange a drop.” They rushed down the stairs with not enough weapons, only the bare scraps of a plan and no backup. 

But they had each other. Hopefully that would count for something. 

It had to, because otherwise they were fucked. 

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found at [bagofgroceries](bagofgroceries.tumblr.com) come flail at me about weird AUs, WinterHawk, or weird obsessions with The Fair Folk.


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